


The Weight of His Sorrow

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A nod to Dr. Who, A nod to Star Trek: Into Darkness (very subtle), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Early Relationship, M/M, No Mary, No Sex, No real plot just finding their way back to each other, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, alternate reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 02:06:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13471413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: Sherlock returns to find not the John Watson he left behind, but a man who is lost without his consulting detective.





	1. If Wishes Were Horses

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a Work in Progress. It is complete and will be posted over the course of the next few days. -AJ

The January wind sliced through his Haversack as though he wore none at all. Tugging the blue scarf tighter around his neck, he struggled to put one foot in front of the other, expending more energy than he had to spare. Thankful there was only a light snow on the ground, although the weather forecast promised more, he pushed onward.

In his weakened condition, the distance from the entrance gate to his destination seemed endless, but when he’d awakened from a fitful sleep just an hour earlier, another day’s wait just wasn’t on.

A fortnight. Two weeks. Fourteen days. Fourteen missed visits. The guilt of that lost time weighed heavily on him. A sudden cough caused by the frigid cold and the last vestiges of chest congestion forced him to press the end of his scarf over his nose and mouth.

Finally, just when he’d thought he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere, he spied the familiar headstone that stood apart from all the others, silent, forlorn somehow, in the meager shade of a nearby tree.

Resting his hand on the cold marker, John Watson stared down at the simple engraved letters, and wondered for the hundredth, probably thousandth, time why there were no dates to commemorate his best friend’s birth and death. Neither was there any sort of epitaph. For the man who would have argued with God to have the last word, surely a few of his many words would have served him well. In all the time passed, nearly two years now, why had there not been anything more?

John crouched down on weary legs to brush away a bit of snow. He straightened the Christmas wreath adorned with holly berries that he’d placed as a remembrance just before the holiday where it would remain until spring. He tried to smile, but failed, remembering how Sherlock hated Christmas, or so he pretended, but John knew the truth, and wondered what we would say about the wreath.

“I..em..” he began, lowering his head. “I’m sorry it’s been so long since our last visit. I forgot to get my flu jab in the autumn, so right after Christmas and just before the new year, I got the flu. It was stupid, not getting the jab, I know, so you don’t have to scold me, but it just didn’t seem important. I think it was your brother who sent Mike Stamford round to look in on me. Lungs are still a bit congested, but it will pass eventually.”

Leaning his forehead against the cold stone, John felt the familiar burning behind his eyes. Pressing his palm over the letters, his eyes brimmed and spilled over. “I think I must have missed your birthday, too, so happy birthday,” he whispered past the lump in his throat. “I don’t know the day, but I’m pretty sure it’s in January.”

Huddled against the last bolt hole Sherlock would forever occupy, John closed his eyes. This life was not worth living without his best friend. If only the ground would open up and swallow him so he could be with Sherlock again. 

If wishes were horses.


	2. I Never Got to Say Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock contemplates empathy.

DO YOU HAVE EYES ON HIM? -MH

I’VE JUST PASSED THE GATE, SO, NO. -SH

SURVEILLANCE IS APPROXIMATELY 100 METRES TO YOUR LEFT. ON THE KNOLL BESIDE THE WEEPING ANGEL. SIGNAL HIM WHEN YOU HAVE LINE OF SIGHT. -MH

UNDERSTOOD. -SH

APPROACH WITH CAUTION, BROTHER MINE. REMEMBER JOHN HAS BEEN ILL OF LATE AS WELL. -MH

 

Sherlock sniffed in annoyance at his brother’s reminder as he zigzagged with purpose round the headstones instead of following the well-worn paths. As he crested the small hill that led to the less..occupied..section of the cemetery, his stride slowed to become much like a dance to avoid any patch of snow or twig that might crunch or snap underfoot. Counting three dozen calculated footfalls, he drifted to his left to position himself behind a tree from where he had line of sight, but John did not. 

Suddenly afraid at the sight of his best and only friend for the first time in two years, Sherlock stood as though rooted to the ground beneath his feet. No longer sturdy, but thin and pale, his unkempt hair, more silver than blond, and beard, still ginger; gone was the John Watson he remembered as strong, fearless. This John Watson was in so much pain that it shattered what was left of his heart. 

He’d extrapolated every possible scenario that was likely to occur when he returned to London to reunite with John, but this was not at all what he expected. 

Sherlock regretted dismissing his brother’s counsel regarding John’s current emotional well-being, or, more accurately, unwell-being. Mycroft had been correct and he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Out of view, but near enough to hear any words John might say, Sherlock’s suddenly compromised thought processes failed to deduce an approach that would be least harmful. 

Empathy. Was this what was essential to avoid tipping John over the edge? Was this what John had tried to teach him long ago? If his doctor was as fragile as Mycroft believed, and the evidence before his eyes was irrefutable, was empathy required for his doctor’s emotional survival? Where might he find this elusive emotion within himself?

“I miss you.”

Sherlock turned from his inner thoughts the moment John spoke. His chest clenched, painfully, at the sound of John’s grief-heavy voice. 

“I miss you all the time.”

John patted the stone as though offering comfort. “It’s nearly two years and it’s not gotten easier.”

Swiping at the tears on his face as he watched John curl himself small against the cold stone, he edged a bit closer, still afraid, still unsure if he should just go to John, hold him, if only John allowed him to do so.

Was this empathy he felt? 

John coughed then, a deep congestion Sherlock thought, but it was the words that passed John lips next that left the detective with no choice but to act.

“I never got to say goodbye,” John cried out, sounding more distraught and pitiful, and at his end. 

“I never got to tell you that I loved you.”


	3. It's All I Have Left of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's grief overflows.

“Oh,” Sherlock whispered as understanding dawned on him. He had no choice but to heed his brother’s advice and proceed with extreme caution.

With the sound of John’s soft sobs lingering in his ears, he stepped away some distance to gather his thoughts. Eventually John’s outward distress faded to occasional sniffling and hiccoughs, and only the sound of the wind bothering the few leaves the otherwise naked trees remained, Sherlock stepped into the open to a place where he was sure John could see him. If only he just looked up.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, hoping his voice carried to where his doctor huddled against the headstone.

“John,” he said, increasing the volume of his voice to gain John’s attention, but not enough to startle.

“I’m here, John.”

John raised his hand to trace with one small finger the letters on the stone.

“I love you, Sherlock. I wish you could hear me.” 

“I hear you, John.”

John shook his head slowly. “No. You’re dead,” John whispered barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear. 

“Not dead, I’m here. You asked for a miracle. Lift your head, John Watson. Look around you. What do you see?”

“No. Stop it, you’re not real,” John groaned, covering his ears.

“Don’t be an idiot. Look around you, John. What do you see?”

At first, John didn’t react, then, slowly, he raised his head.

“I’m right here, John,” Sherlock called to him, holding his hand, palm down, finger stretching out toward his doctor, mimicking his reaching out to John from the rooftop at St. Bart’s. 

His eyes wide with disbelief, John’s reaction was immediate. “No, no, no. It can’t..you’re..no, I can’t..”

Pushing himself upright on unsteady legs, John backed away from the headstone and Sherlock. “You’re not real. Not real. Stop it, now.”

“I am real, John.”

“I see you there, right now, but you’re in my head, but I can’t reach out to you because you’ll just fade away like all the other times.”

“Reach out, John, I know you want to. Trust me, I am real.” 

“No, what’s in my head, I have to keep it safe. It’s all...” John’s voice broke, becoming very small. “It’s all I have left of you.”

“You can have more, John, you just have to reach out for it.”

“You weren’t supposed to go where I can’t follow, Sherlock,” John cried out. 

“John, I am sorry. ”

“Shut up,” John shouted, grabbing two fistfuls of his long hair. “You left me behind. I loved you and you left me behind.”

Sherlock stepped closer.“John, this is not a magic trick. I am here.”

“No, you’re not real,” John insisted. “You’re not real.” Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, John fell to his knees, folding in on himself.

Unable to witness another moment of John’s grief, Sherlock ran to him, dropping down beside his doctor, holding him against his chest. John stiffened in his arms for barely an instant. In the time between one breath and the next, John’s arms circled round his neck like a drowning man.

“Sherlock,” John whispered against his ear. “Please, don’t let go.”

“I have you, John. I’ll not let you go again.”


	4. Going Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's Guilt

As light icy snow ticked against his doctor’s waterproof jacket, John held on to Sherlock, unwilling to let go, but the congestion Sherlock heard in John’s chest as he breathed signalled the time to leave.

“John, it’s time to go home. This damp weather is not good for you and you are not sufficiently recovered from the flu.”

“No. I can’t leave. You’ll be gone. I don’t want to be alone again.”

“I promise you won’t be alone, John. I’ll be with you.”

“Sherlock?” 

“Yes, John?”

John turned his head to bury his face into the upturned collar of his Belstaff. “Are you another figment of my imagination or are you really here?”

“I am really and truly here, John.”

Red-rimmed and swollen dark blue eyes met his. “How do I know you won’t fade away again?”

Sherlock framed his longer fingers to John’s tired face, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Because my dear John, I’ve loved you since the first moment I gazed upon your beautiful face.”

“Oh,” John whispered, his eyes awash with new tears.

“Yes, oh.” Sherlock pushed himself to his feet. “Up you go. I believe there is a car waiting for us at the gate.   
On his feet, John stumbled a bit, but Sherlock steadied him until he could stand. Their walk to the gate was slow and measured according to John’s strength, but as promised, a government car was awaiting them just beyond the gate.

Sherlock worried when John shivered despite the warmth of the interior of the car. The weight of John’s sorrow was almost tangible, as though he wore it like a coat, as though it had become fused in his DNA over the last two years. Guilt for his role in that sorrow settled deep in his stomach as he watched John sink into the comfort of the seat.

Soon the warmth and gentle vibration of the car worked its magic, and John’s head dipped to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder.  
The detective smiled, wrapping his fingers around the smaller hand that lay on the seat between them. 

Sherlock suspected that this was the quiet before the storm. The Watson storm, with anger and swearing. After the chaos and fear of the last two years, whatever John had to throw at him would be mild in comparison. He hoped for John’s forgiveness, but he wouldn’t ask for it. For now, all he wanted was to just be with John.


	5. He Missed You, Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson offers some advice.

“John.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand several times to gently wake him. “We’re home.”

John drew in a deep breath, rolling his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. The warmth of the car seemed have been a benefit to John’s breathing for the moment.

“John, you need to wake up now.”

Responding slowly to Sherlock’s voice, John struggled to sit up. He appeared dazed, more faded than at the cemetery, the dark smudges beneath his red-rimmed eyes more pronounced. It was hateful, seeing John in such a state.

Mrs. Hudson waited at the door for them, forewarned by Mycroft he supposed. Her teary eyes and wide smile welcomed him.

“Sherlock, welcome home,” she whispered when he kissed her cheek. “I want you to know that your brother was very kind when he informed me of your return. You know, I never truly believed his story of your demise.”

He drew back, offering her a bit of a smile in greeting. “It’s good to be home.” The less said about his brother, the better for all concerned.

Mrs. Hudson tipped her head to see John’s face. “He missed you, Sherlock. It was so sad. He was so terribly depressed, I worried he would do something foolish,” she whispered as she followed them to the stairs.

“I’m here now, Mrs. Hudson. I’m not leaving him again. We’ll get through this together.”

“I hope you’ll get it right this time, dear.”

Sherlock frowned, Mrs. Hudson wore a tiny smile, he deleted the exchange while guiding John to the stairs.

“If there is anything I can do, anything at all, just give a shout. John needs a good feeding up. He hasn’t eaten well in a long time. I should say the same for you, dear.”

“Thank you, but not just now. Perhaps tomorrow. John needs tea and sleep, not necessarily in that order.”

“All right. I know you’ll take good care of him, now that you’re back from wherever you went off to,” Mrs. Hudson scolded gently, but her smile told him she was happy to have him home. “Goodnight, dear.” 

She was gone before Sherlock could say goodnight to her. Just as well, he thought as he turned his attention back to John and how best to manoeuvre him up the seventeen stairs. 

“Do you think you can manage the stairs, John?”

With one arm round John’s waist and the other against the wall to balance them, the ascent was slow but without incident.

Inside the flat, Sherlock guided John to his chair by the hearth. “Tea?”

John didn’t respond. Sherlock took that as his cue to go to the kitchen, constantly aware of John’s eyes following him. 

“I found some biscuits and jam,” he said in an effort to keep any conversation light and in the moment. “I don’t suppose you’ve had anything to eat today,” he added, just catching the spare shake of John’s head.

Eventually John joined him in the kitchen, sipping at his tea and nibbling a biscuit. Several times Sherlock noticed the flexing of his left hand and with each grasp of the mug of tea, his hand shook.

“Not sleeping well?” Sherlock enquired after a lengthy silence. 

Startled, as though surprised at Sherlock’s presence, John looked up at him, his dark eyes too shiny not to be filled with tears. 

“John?” Sherlock was on his knees in front of his best friend. “I’m right here with you.”

Sherlock blinked away the prickling behind his own eyes even as he swiped at the tears on John’s cheeks.

“I didn’t think, I didn’t know, John, not at first I-.”

Shocked into silence when John pressed one trembling finger against his lips and shook his head, Sherlock waited for whatever happened next.

Sherlock held his breath when John dropped his weary head to his shoulder and hugged him with arms round his neck.

“I missed you. My heart...was broken.” 

“And I missed you as well, John. More than you know.”

John pulled in a shuddering breath. “I thought it was my fault, that I didn’t see the signs, that I could have stopped you, saved you...protected you.”

“Yes, I understand that now, but I had no choice at that moment,” he said, leaving out the fact that given the same circumstance, he would do it again.

“Not now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, relieved that he didn’t have to explain any more at this moment. It could wait. He could wait for the fall out. “All right.”

Eventually John released him. “You need to sleep, John.”

“Yes.”

“In my room. I don’t want you climbing the stairs. I will be near while you sleep.”

John said nothing, he just walked away. Certain that John was still in a state of shock, Sherlock followed not far behind. Only when he entered the bedroom did he realise that although everything in the room was as he’d left it, dust and all, the bed, which he’d always sorted out before leaving the flat each day, was a rumpled disaster. John had been sleeping in his bed. 

From where he stood in the doorway, he watched John remove his shoes and his belt and crawl beneath the duvet. In minutes he was sound asleep.


	6. I'm Here, John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaching out.

Sherlock removed his shoes so that John would sleep undisturbed and to allow him to potter around the flat to familiarise himself once more. John, hadn’t removed one thing that would have been a constant reminder, not even equipment on the kitchen table. Yes, he’d binned the experiments, cleaned the equipment and cleared the fridge of all things inedible, he checked, but everything was just as he’d left it, as though John knew he would return. Perhaps, somewhere deep inside him, his doctor had wished it so.

It was clear that Sherlock had not deduced the terrible toll inflicted upon John. It was obvious now, that John hadn’t understood the magic trick reference.

It wasn’t long after John had fallen asleep that Sherlock looked up when a sound drew his attention to see John standing beside his chair. John’s breathing seemed harsh in the quiet. Sherlock was at his side without conscious thought. It was as much a disorienting sensation the second time as it had been the first.

“Bad dream?”

The doctor’s shaky sigh said it all.

“Come here,” Sherlock said in his softest voice.

John leaned into his chest, obviously seeking comfort, which Sherlock offered without question, taking him in his arms.  
When John placed his palm at the center of his chest, Sherlock understood.

“I’m here, John.”


	7. Level: Critical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's John Watson alert is at its highest level.

Observing John’s need to seek his whereabouts when he was not in sight was understandable, might have been a bit amusing, if it hadn’t been so traumatic. John nodded off whenever he sat in his chair or on the sofa only to startle awake after a short time. Sherlock could only imagine what it must have been like for John when he was alone, especially in the early days following...that day.

In those brief times when John slept that afternoon, Sherlock researched emotional trauma on his laptop, reading quickly the articles he found and bookmarking dozens more. Unfortunately for him, the more he read, the more guilt rose in his throat.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, bolting from his chair, surveying the room as though not sure of where he was, and wearing a frightened and confused expression.

“Right here, John,” Sherlock said in a reassuring tone, approaching slowly until he could rest his hands on John’s shoulders.

John stared at the floor. “Sorry.”

“No apologies needed, John.”

When it seemed that the one word was all John had to say, Sherlock didn’t push him to engage. Just be there for him, the the latest read posting had stated.

“I’m not a very good cook, John, as I’m sure you recall, but I prepared your ‘thing with the peas,’ well, as best I could remember. It’s been a long...I found fairly edible vegetables in the crisper for a salad. I don’t think they complement each other very well, but..” he let his voice trail off.  


John made brief eye contact, nodding his head. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

It will be ready in another fifteen minutes.”

“All right.”

Sherlock cleared a space for them at the sitting room table while John stood nearby watching, sorrow deeply etched into his handsome face.

The silence while they ate was like an elephant in the room. John ate less than half of what Sherlock remembered as his favored serving size. The detective’s hunger crawled away as John pushed the remainder of his meal around the plate.

“Yours is much better.” 

John returned from wherever his thoughts had taken him and after several moments finally focused. “What?”

“I don’t think I seasoned it properly. At least not the way you do.”

“Sorry? I-”

“It’s all right, John, not important. Are you finished?”

“Yes, it was very good. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“I’ll do the washing up.”

“If you wish, but you don’t have to. If you’d rather sleep.”

“No.”

“Very well. I’ll dry and put them away.”

Nothing more was said for the few minutes it took to complete their task. Sherlock watched John carefully, but his doctor gave nothing away.

He was too quiet, too lacking in emotion. Sherlock sensed a storm building inside John, but he’d been away too long, their connection now strained to the point of unravelling. He was not the same man Sherlock had left behind. He was traumatised. There was no way of knowing when or if he’d ever again resemble his John. 

Sherlock heightened all his senses to the highest level.

Critical.


	8. Take a Breath. Level: Low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John shuts down...just for a bit.

The evening was quiet, John dozed in his chair off and on. Sherlock felt his eyes on him several times, but lifted his gaze from his book only a few.

“Good book?”

“Boring.”

“Why are you reading it?”

“I don’t know. I’d rather read you.”

“You don’t want to do that,” John whispered, his voice breaking.

“Why not? You are an endlessly fascinating mystery to me. My time away hasn’t changed that in the least.”

“I’m not the same man I was when you-” John began, closing his eyes.

“When I left you behind. I understand.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“I understand more than you realise, John.”

John stared at him, but said nothing.

“I’m not the same man either. Yes, I have stepped back into my life as though I’d never been away, as though this was just another day at Baker Street, but I do understand how much I have hurt you.”

“No! Don’t explain,” John cried out. “Not now. I can’t hear it right now.”

“All right.”

“I need to shower.”

John pushed out of his chair and stiffened his back, but the tears in his eyes gave him away. 

When John disappeared into the bedroom and Sherlock heard the water running, he dropped his book to the floor to retrieve his laptop. He needed more data.


	9. Turning Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reveals his truth of his broken heart.

As he often did, Sherlock lost track of time while filing away data. The fire had long gone out, the shower silent. The sitting room sat in shadow. 

What reached him in the depths of his Mind Palace was a soft mewling, which emanated from the bedroom. 

"John?"

Padding silently from the sitting room table, through the kitchen and down the hallway, Sherlock stopped at the threshold of the open bedroom door.

Curled into the corner on the far side of the bed, John whimpered, his legs folded against chest, his face hidden in the crook of his knees, and his arms over his head. Upon closer observation, John wore not his own pyjamas, but Sherlock’s.

Oh. Sherlock thought he had understood before, at the cemetery. He knew now that he'd had only a rudimentary understanding of John’s feelings toward him. This was something far beyond.

The detective went to John, gathering him into his arms. John clung to him, trembling, in deep distress, his sobs filling the room. This was not the anger he anticipated. This was bone marrow-deep grief. And that pain was palpable.

“I’m sorry I left you behind, John. I understand now. Not only did you lose me, you lost your purpose, to protect me. I left you adrift in a stormy sea, sorry for the poetic visual, I didn’t understand at the time, all I wanted was to keep you alive, keep you safe, but what I did was hurt you to the very core of who you are.”

Sherlock held John tightly in his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Lifting John’s head with one finger under his chin, he gently wiped away the tears.

“Into bed with you,” he said, helping John to his feet and guiding him beneath the duvet. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand on John’s shoulder.

“I won’t say anymore, but I just want you to know how sorry I am for not considering the toll my actions took on you. I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, but I will not ask your forgiveness.”

John reached out to capture his wrist as he tried to move away.

“Stay?”

“I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”

“No. Stay. Please?”

“John?”

“The shadows. I can’t bear the shadows.”

“We can keep the light on.”

John nodded, holding fast to Sherlock’s wrist.

“Stay with me?” John pleaded again, pulling on his wrist.

“Sure?”

“Yes. Please?”

Sherlock hesitated, but in the end could not deny John the comfort he needed. “All right, I just need to change my-”

John reached beneath the pillow to pull out Sherlock’s favored pyjama bottoms and his ragged T-shirt. Sherlock took them, thinking how ridiculous it was that he was suddenly teary-eyed.

“You kept them? All this time?” Sherlock held his breath while John returned the favor by wiping away his tears.

“They reminded me of you. I needed something else to..”

“Hold onto?”

“Yes. I needed to believe that you were out there somewhere, because the alternative would have killed me. I needed to believe that you didn’t lie to me, that everything was a big, elaborate plan, and you would come home, but-”

“But?” Sherlock prompted, changing into his pyjamas while he waited for John to continue.

“But when you didn’t come back, my heart broke. Everything broke.” 

Sherlock climbed over John and lay next to him, reaching out to lay his hand over his smaller one. “I took your oatmeal jumper. On the nights when I felt so alone my chest hurt, all the nights, really, I wore it to feel close to you.”

“Where is it now?” John asked as his eyes filled. “In one or two of my lucid moments I thought I’d misplaced it somehow.”

“What little I brought back with me I left with my brother. He’s keeping the jumper safe. It’s a bit ragged and needs a good wash.” 

Resting his palm against John’s cheek, Sherlock held his gaze. “Until I was away from you, I didn’t realise how much you meant to me. Every day I regretted that night at Angelo’s. I wished I had had the courage to tell you the truth.”

“Truth?”

“That I had feelings for you after such a short time. I didn’t quite understand them, they scared me, but I wanted to.. understand them. I knew I wanted you always by my side. I was so confused. I didn’t know what to do. I’m not making any sense right now, John. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Sherlock.”

“Being separated from you made me empty inside, and then, when I returned, and found you at the cemetery, and I saw how hurt you were, I knew I could never leave you again. I had to make it right again, if you were amenable.”

“Shh. It’s okay. Oh, please don’t cry, Sherlock. If you cry, I’m gonna cry, so-”

They cried together, held each other, fell into one another’s gazes. 

“Are we okay?” John asked as they lay side by side, fingers laced together. 

“More than okay, John.”

John reached up to turn off the nightstand light, plunging the room into darkness. Still holding hands, John pulled in a shaky breath and let it out silently enough to barely qualify as a breath.

“They’re gone, Sherlock.”

“What’s gone?”

“The shadows.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“A very good thing, Sherlock.”

When John rolled over onto his side and curled himself around him to rest his head on his shoulder, Sherlock knew he was right where he wanted, and needed to be. It would take time and effort, he knew, but in his battered heart he knew they would be all right. They would always be all right.

“A very good thing, indeed, John.”


End file.
